


Futile Devices

by mytimehaspassed



Category: The War Boys
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they kiss, its right after David’s mom dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Futile Devices

**FUTILE DEVICES**  
THE WAR BOYS  
David/George  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-movie, spoilers for the movie (plus a stolen quote)

  
The first time they kiss, its right after David’s mom dies. Six days after the funeral, he was still buried beneath the mountain of blankets Maria had made of his bed, and his father’s words were still caught somewhere between his ears and his mouth, words about how it’s only them now, just him, just his father, words that didn’t even bring tears anymore. Words that were numb within David’s heart.

Greg had been caught by the front door with his bottle of whiskey and thirteen year old fingers still on the latch, but George had made it past, made it all the way to David’s room without so much as a creaking step, maybe because George knows the insides of David’s house even with his eyes closed, knows the right floorboards to step on, knows the right hallways, the right staircases, knows just the right way to turn the knob of David’s bedroom door. Maybe it’s because George spends more time here than his own home, his loving parents, and the piercing cries of his baby sister, who isn’t really his sister anyway, no matter what the adoption papers say.

George slides into David’s bed and they turn together like puzzle pieces, George’s arms around David before David can even whisper hello. It’s always been like this, especially in the dark, especially when they’re all alone.

“I’m sorry,” George says, and it’s harsh in David’s ears, but he welcomes it, moving closer to the sound, pressing flatter against George.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. And again. And again.

David hasn’t spoken in days, but with George’s breath against his cheek, he feels like he won’t be able to stop. He says he doesn’t know what he’ll do now, he says he doesn’t know what his father will do now. He says he doesn’t know how they can stay here, in this house, with her ghost clinging to the walls like a picture frame, the swell of her perfume still in the space between her bed and the closet, her makeup forgotten on the floor, her clothes still strewn across the bed. He says his father hasn’t been able to sleep in their room since it happened, he says Maria moved his suits from their closet to the guest room, moved his shampoo and soap and forgot the lilac scented lotion, forgot the lavender shaving cream. Left the bed unmade, left the pillow still shaped to her small nose, small mouth, left her bedside table still full of books she never got to finish.

With George’s fingers gripping the back of David’s shirt so tight, David says, “How are we supposed to just let her go?”

With his nose lost somewhere in the crook of George’s neck, David says, “How are we just supposed to move on?”

And George doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to answer, except to lift his head and capture David’s mouth with his own. I don’t know, he says against David’s lips.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

***

The second time, they’re not really just kids. They’re sixteen and they come back from riding around in the desert with the smell of something sharp and dangerous in the air, and it’s just them because Greg had gotten scared at the sound of gunshots in the dark, just them because David has never been scared, never been put off by the wind whipping through his clothes as he runs, dancing around cactuses, dancing around the helicopter’s spotlight, his hands almost, but not quite, touching George’s hands. They’ve been drinking and there’s sand in their mouths, sand in their hair, and their hearts race in time together, beating loudly in their throats.

And George says, “See who flinches first?” And it’s an old game, but one that still hurts, with muscles that are getting bigger, with fists that are getting stronger, and David smiles and says, yes. Says, his father’s out of town for the week, somewhere in New York.

Says, there’s no one here.

And George says, “No one here to tuck you in at night?” And his fist is so fast on David’s cheek, that David can’t help the shocked intake of breath, his teeth biting hard enough on the inside of his mouth that it bleeds.

“Just your mom,” David says, and coughs because he’s out of breath, leaning against the wall of his bedroom, his hand outstretched on the poster behind him, dizzy from the alcohol. There’s the taste of the desert on his tongue, something he’s really never been able to get out, something he’s really never been able to forget.

George passes the bottle to David and he takes a swig, swallowing obscenely. David says, “How’d you get the money for this? Been selling yourself to beaners again?”

And George’s face makes a delicious smack under David’s palm.

George smiles, but it’s raw. “I’m not the one who likes cock, rich boy.” And his school ring catches David just under his right eye, the raise of his cheekbone there, and there’s blood on George’s knuckles, blood on the wall behind David, where it sprayed the poster there.

And David laughs, his hands on his knees, hurt, but it’s not funny, it’s not nice, and George pauses for an instant, thinks maybe they went too far, with the whiskey being passed between them like water, with the heat, the smell, the sound of the desert still on their skin, maybe this is something that’s beyond them, something that the two of them can’t handle.

“David?” George says, and David laughs again, looking down at the floor.

“We both know that’s not true,” he says.

And George swallows past the swell of something bitter in his throat, his teeth clenching hard, his hands in fists at his sides.

David looks up, his hands still on his knees, and George looks away. “Made you flinch,” he says. And it’s true, George taking a shaky breath, his eyes on the ceiling above him, the scorch mark they made last summer when they accidentally lit David’s chemistry project on fire. It’s true, but George is the one who takes a swing, instead, uppercuts just beneath David’s jaw, and then they’re on the floor, and George has his hands on David and David’s doing nothing to defend himself, his hands by his side, and George can feel the tears hot against his cheeks, can feel the anger inside him like burning, but David is just taking it, George’s punches, George’s nails scratching at David’s clothes.

“It’s okay,” David says, and George can’t think of anything else to shut him up, but to kiss him, their mouths fitting perfectly together.

The whiskey bottle rolls somewhere beneath them, and David is arching up to kiss George, his hands encircling the back of George’s neck, his thumbs pressing down on the corners of George’s mouth, and George has his hands somewhere in David’s clothes, and he’s gripping them tight and tighter, pulling them together fast and hard, and there’s nothing between them now, and they’re both just trying to get closer. David says George’s name in between gasps of air, and George shudders from the way it sounds coming from his kiss-swollen lips.

David’s blood is all over his face now, all over George’s face, and they can taste it on their lips, taste the sharp bite of the whiskey, taste the dry grit of the desert. George licks David’s cheek, and David moves in with a sharp yearning in the pit of his belly, and George can feel the searing heat of him through their jeans. There’s this, this thing between them, and neither of them knows what it’s called.

And George says David’s name and David presses his palm flat against George’s skin, underneath his tee shirt, his fingers hard over George’s belly button.

And, they’ve never done this before, but neither of them could even begin to stop.

***

 _The only thing that felt better than you putting your hand on me, was when I put my hand on you._

***

In the morning, David wakes up because George leaves the bed cold where his warmth used to be. He watches George pull on his shirt and not meet his eyes. He watches George lace up his sneakers. “Are you going home?” David asks, and his voice cracks, and he’s unembarrassed.

“Yes,” George says, and his voice is tired, and there’s a red mark on his neck from where David’s mouth had been. “I need to do something for my dad today,” and it’s a lie, and they both know it.

Here, George turns around and looks at the spot just below David’s nose, the spot where his lip creases, unable to look at anything else. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for everything, and it’s for nothing. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

David reaches out to touch George’s hand, but George pulls away before they can connect. David pulls back, and feels gutted. There’s something in his heart that’s not working right, he can feel the gap there, he can feel it stutter and shake.

George says, “I’ll see you later,” pulling his hood over his face.

And David never says anything.

***

The third time they kiss, George leaves again.

***

He stays for the fourth, though.  



End file.
